you’ve said … um … I don’t think Grandmother or my father would be very pleased if we got arrested.”
She frowned as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said in disgust. “Maybe another day. This is only your first march, after all.” She grabbed my sign and gave it to one of the other women, along with her own. Then we stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk to walk back the way we had just come. I could see that Aunt Matt was furious, but whether it was with me or with all the injustice she had endured in life, I didn’t know. I decided to remain quiet.
We returned to the streetcar stop and climbed aboard the first car that arrived. Aunt Matt released an enormous sigh as she sank onto the seat.
“How did you get involved in the suffrage movement?” I asked her—just to let her know I was still on her side.
“One of my earliest memories is of my father’s reaction when my sister Florence was born. ‘If only she had been a boy,’ he said over and over again. ‘Why couldn’t she have been a boy?’ It seemed as though a great tragedy had occurred in our home, like a death in the family. He had the same reaction when Agnes and Bertha were born—deep, deep disappointment.
“As I grew older, I tried very hard to make him proud of me, to show him that I was just as good as any son. I began reading his newspapers, following his court cases, and discussing current events with him. I even learned how to research law cases for him. I wanted to be everything to him that a son would have been.
“But even as he lay dying, he told me, ‘Too bad you weren’t a boy… . It’s my lifelong regret that I never had a son to carry on my work.’ He was disappointed in me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. It didn’t matter how sharp my mind was or how well I could converse with him. He never forgave me for being trapped in a woman’s body.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.
“Nearly all men are the same. They want sons. And they blame their wives for failing if they produce only daughters. My mother had a very difficult time delivering Bertha and nearly died. She never should have had another child. But Father insisted that she produce a son for him. My mother died in childbirth along with her fifth child—her fifth daughter.”
By the time Aunt Matt finished her story we were home. I didn’t know what to say to her, but fortunately she went straight into her room and closed the door. Her story left me feeling very sad. I wondered if my father had decided to marry Maude so that he could have a son.
I went into the parlor and collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Compared to sipping tea and discussing the merits of thunder, it had been an exhilarating day.
Could Aunt Matt and her friends be right? Were women just as smart and strong and deserving of a good education as men? And should women be allowed to vote? I had a lot to think about.
I hadn’t seen my grandmother’s hat on the hall tree, so I knew she was still out. I would have a few minutes alone with Aunt Birdie’s photographs. I crept over to the secretary, opened the drawer, and had just picked up the first photo when Aunt Birdie came in.
“That’s a picture of Matt,” she said, peering over my shoulder. I had to look very closely before I could see that she was right. Aunt Matt was smiling. And slender. And pretty. She wore a light-colored dress. And jewelry.
“She looks so different,” I said.
“It’s her engagement picture. She had it taken for her beau.”
“I didn’t know Aunt Matt was engaged.”
“We didn’t think she would ever get married. She was thirty-one when she met Robert. He was one of my father’s acquaintances, and he came to visit when Father was dying. The rest of us were all married and had left home by then. Matt lived here alone, taking care of him. His illness was very hard on her. But then Robert Tucker came to call,
She frowned as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said in disgust. “Maybe another day. This is only your first march, after all.” She grabbed my sign and gave it to one of the other women, along with her own. Then we stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk to walk back the way we had just come. I could see that Aunt Matt was furious, but whether it was with me or with all the injustice she had endured in life, I didn’t know. I decided to remain quiet.
We returned to the streetcar stop and climbed aboard the first car that arrived. Aunt Matt released an enormous sigh as she sank onto the seat.
“How did you get involved in the suffrage movement?” I asked her—just to let her know I was still on her side.
“One of my earliest memories is of my father’s reaction when my sister Florence was born. ‘If only she had been a boy,’ he said over and over again. ‘Why couldn’t she have been a boy?’ It seemed as though a great tragedy had occurred in our home, like a death in the family. He had the same reaction when Agnes and Bertha were born—deep, deep disappointment.
“As I grew older, I tried very hard to make him proud of me, to show him that I was just as good as any son. I began reading his newspapers, following his court cases, and discussing current events with him. I even learned how to research law cases for him. I wanted to be everything to him that a son would have been.
“But even as he lay dying, he told me, ‘Too bad you weren’t a boy… . It’s my lifelong regret that I never had a son to carry on my work.’ He was disappointed in me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. It didn’t matter how sharp my mind was or how well I could converse with him. He never forgave me for being trapped in a woman’s body.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.
“Nearly all men are the same. They want sons. And they blame their wives for failing if they produce only daughters. My mother had a very difficult time delivering Bertha and nearly died. She never should have had another child. But Father insisted that she produce a son for him. My mother died in childbirth along with her fifth child—her fifth daughter.”
By the time Aunt Matt finished her story we were home. I didn’t know what to say to her, but fortunately she went straight into her room and closed the door. Her story left me feeling very sad. I wondered if my father had decided to marry Maude so that he could have a son.
I went into the parlor and collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Compared to sipping tea and discussing the merits of thunder, it had been an exhilarating day.
Could Aunt Matt and her friends be right? Were women just as smart and strong and deserving of a good education as men? And should women be allowed to vote? I had a lot to think about.
I hadn’t seen my grandmother’s hat on the hall tree, so I knew she was still out. I would have a few minutes alone with Aunt Birdie’s photographs. I crept over to the secretary, opened the drawer, and had just picked up the first photo when Aunt Birdie came in.
“That’s a picture of Matt,” she said, peering over my shoulder. I had to look very closely before I could see that she was right. Aunt Matt was smiling. And slender. And pretty. She wore a light-colored dress. And jewelry.
“She looks so different,” I said.
“It’s her engagement picture. She had it taken for her beau.”
“I didn’t know Aunt Matt was engaged.”
“We didn’t think she would ever get married. She was thirty-one when she met Robert. He was one of my father’s acquaintances, and he came to visit when Father was dying. The rest of us were all married and had left home by then. Matt lived here alone, taking care of him. His illness was very hard on her. But then Robert Tucker came to call,
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